


Strong at the Broken Places

by Theartofhidingabody



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theartofhidingabody/pseuds/Theartofhidingabody
Summary: In a time of post-war prosperity, a dangerous underworld of gangsters has emerged on the coattails of Prohibition. Corruption and greed run rampant through local precincts as mobsters seek protection for their businesses. Dallon is in the middle of this, trying to piece together a string of murders for grieving families, but finding himself at a dead end with every lead. But, when he's joined by a chatty private investigator in the midst of a blizzard, there seems to be some light at the end of this very long tunnel.





	1. All Work, No Play

The cold wind whistled between the buildings and over the tin roof of the mostly empty diner, January snow blowing off Lake Michigan in wet clumps that stuck to the sidewalks and roads outside. The small diner was a safe haven for those working the nightshift, tired eyes blinking at the small words of the menu or the newspaper that had been purchased outside. The occupant of the booth crammed into the back corner of the diner had been picking through the small stack of files beside him for hours, occasionally pausing to write messy notes in the margins or take a sip of coffee from the mug in front of him. Prohibition had opened up a sort of Pandora’s box of violent crimes, brother turning on brother in the name of whatever gang they associated themselves with. Dallon, and the rest of the Chicago police force, were caught up in the middle of it.  
“More coffee? A chipper female voice asked as he stared blankly at the newspaper in front of him.  
“Huh? Yeah. Thanks.” He nodded, giving an embarrassed smile as she dumped coffee into his mug. Into the dark liquid, he dumped some sugar, stirring it up with the handle of his fork.  
The waitress lingered and he gave her a questioning look.  
“Oh, uhm, I was just wondering if…if maybe we could grab a bite after I got off? Somewhere that isn’t diner food?”  
“That does sound nice,” he gave her a small smile, “I’ll have to decline.”  
She frowned. “You buttons are all the same, huh? All work, no play. A cat like you sure could be fun if you’d loosen up a little.” And with a little huff, she went on her way.  
A door opened not much later, the frigid air hitting him abruptly. He, once again, looked up and watched a man talk to the hostess as he pulled off his gloves and stuffed them in his coat pocket. When the stranger turned to follow the hostess to a table, Dallon immediately went back to his paper, trying to get back into the case. 

**

A blast of arctic, bone chilling wind whipped around Brendon as he squashed the low ember of what was a cigarette out with his toe. His face was buried under a warm wool scarf, shadowed by the brim of his hat. It was a mostly successful attempt to ward off the wind and keep his nose from falling off.  
He was a private investigator and had been on a wild goose chase to catch an ever elusive killer who had pissed off one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the Windy City. Every lead he’d come across just ended with another murder which landed him back at square one. He’d begun to wonder if there really even was a case or if this mobster was just toying with him. For this reason, he much preferred smaller cases, they were, in most cases, very open and shut. The police were the ones who were supposed to handle the larger cases, after all, but maybe his client didn’t trust them. Which was fair considering the police were loyal to the highest bidder.  
Through the snow, he spotted the faint gleam of lights from a diner just across the street. He paused at the newspaper stall just outside of it, picking up one of the less ruined ones and tossing a penny in the tin on top. He dusted it off as he climbed the steps, letting out a relieved sigh as the warmth of the diner came over him. Goosebumps rose along his skin and the hostess came to greet him.  
“Awfully cold out there tonight.” He commented with a bit of a smile.  
He felt eyes on him, a somewhat uncomfortable feeling to him. Off to the side, another man abruptly turned his attention back to the table he was at. Strange chap.  
“I’ll take a booth and a hot cup of coffee.”  
He carefully placed his items, scarf, hat, and coat, on the back right side of the booth and situated himself on the let side so he could get a good look at the stranger he had seen as he walked in.  
The man in question was a tall, slim man with chocolate brown hair that was pushed out of his face, a tired face, and a fine sense of fashion. Brendon wouldn’t have noticed the blue eyes if he hadn’t turned to meet the other’s gaze.  
Being caught caused him to dip his head down and pull out his soggy paper, though there wasn’t much left to read. This didn’t bother him, at any rate, as it was just being used as a distraction.  
“Not much to read there.” The man remarked from his booth.  
Brendon folded the paper and gave a cheeky smile.  
“Better than listening to the wind.” He offered.  
“Eh, I don’t mind it too much. Better than dead silence.”  
Dallon has his own thoughts on the man he was striking a conversation up with, especially about the way those full lips curled into a warm smile and his coffee colored eyes.  
“You can borrow my paper, if you’d like. Don’t know why I read it, considering I already know about half of these things.”  
The man, much to his surprise, accepted his invitation and wandered over.  
“I left the puzzles alone. The damned things piss me off.” He joked as his new friend slid into the booth across from him, taking the paper once he was settled.  
“They’re only fun when you can ask someone smarter than you for help.”

**  
The waitress gave a confused look when she had found the booth Brendon had occupied was empty, save for a pile of winter clothes and a soggy newspaper. Then, Dallon saw her roll her eyes as she approached with the cup of coffee, steam rising from it in a faint white wisp.  
“You seem to be able to make friends anywhere, detective.” She commented as she set the creamer down with a small clink.  
Brendon lowered the paper slightly, left brow cocked up in a question.  
“Detective?” He repeated in a curious tone. “Now, what’s a big ol’ button like you sittin’ in a diner drinking coffee while folks are wreaking havoc in the streets?”  
There was a slight bitterness to his tone, almost like he expected better.  
Brendon scratched at the stubble on his chin, then concentrated on pouring the right amount of creamer into his coffee. It turned the black into a light caramel color, which he topped off with a couple spoonfuls of sugar.  
“Yeah, I’m a detective,” Dallon replied somewhat defensively. “What’s the hoopla about?”  
Brendon softened a bit, the crease in his brow disappearing as a smile flashed on his lips.  
“Oh, there’s nothin’ wrong with being a detective…” He trailed off, taking a reserved sip of his drink.  
“But?”  
“Would you ever work with an outside source?”  
With the change of subject he pulled his cigarette tin from the breast pocket of his vest, tapping it ritually on the palm of his hand before extracting one.  
“No.” Dallon said bluntly. “Private eyes are just out to make a quick clam, with no kind of moral compass.”  
“You think I’d pull a fast one on you, Mr. Detective? In this economy, I’ve no reason to be dishonest.” Brendon paused. “You workin’ anything excitin’?”  
Dallon’s blue eyes narrowed in slight annoyance at the pressure. “My eyes only, kid.”  
“Aw, c’mon, don’t be a downer. We could always be workin’ the same case. Y’never know.”  
“That we could,” Dallon agreed, lighting his own cigarette with a visibly worn lighter. “But cases are sensitive things. Things certain private eyes can’t wait to buy off a lazy cop who’d much rather be scratchin’ his ass than bringing people to justice.”  
Brendon seemed off put by the question, which made the corners of Dallon’s mouth curl up in amusement.  
“Well,” the other began, “I’m not out for a quick buck. For all my cases. My clients come to me and I work as hard as I can to get them the justice they deserve.”  
“Mhmm, sure. You rehearse that in front of the mirror every morning?”  
“I’m being honest!” Brendon protested. “You must be a pretty shit detective if you can’t see that.”  
“I must be. But, even so, I’m not a fool. If you want a bite of my case, you’ll have to earn my trust. Which is next to impossible considering our completely different moral compasses.”


	2. Brendon Urie Takes a Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After unsuccessfully trying to flirt his way into a partnership with Detective Weekes, Brendon finds himself in the back of a familiar Rolls-Royce headed to a meeting with one of the most powerful men in Chicago. He begins to wonder if the money is really worth working for the mob.

“It’s getting’ pretty late,” Brendon began, “I should probably be heading home.”  
He folded up the paper gingerly, moving out of the booth. He stretched a moment, letting out a low whine as some of his joints popped, and plopped a couple of bills down on the table.  
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective, and, uhm, thanks for the paper.”  
Brendon took up his things from the other, vacant booth and started putting on his armor to combat the cold.  
“The name’s Dallon.”  
The detective had abandoned the booth as well, a couple coins glittering in the diner lighting next to an empty coffee cup. Brendon offered his hand and Dallon shook it firmly.  
“Brendon.”  
“Pleasure to meet you.”  
“You coming onto me, Detective?”  
There was a twinge of fear in Dallon’s expression, as if Brendon was reading into something that the detective would rather keep a secret. The fear went, though, and all taller did was exhale sharply from his nose and stick another cigarette between his lips. Once the end was glowing orange, he made for the door, files tucked under his arm to shield them from the worst of the snow.  
Brendon grabbed a napkin out of one of the holders at the counter, bringing his pen out of his coat pocket and scribbling a number down on it. Then, he rushed after the detective who had made it across the street despite the short amount of time having passed. His breath came out in little white clouds, blowing away with the wind and snow as he ran, careful not to bust his ass along the way.  
“Wait! Jesus-“  
Dallon stopped, stepping under an awning to get out of the wind a bit.  
“What?!” He called, squinting at the dark colored blob that approached him. He very rarely wore his glasses, so he went around blind as a bat most times.  
“My number,” the man he now recognized as Brendon panted, “call anytime. My secretary should be able to handle anything for you.”  
Dallon took the napkin and stuffed it in his pocket.  
“Sure.” He nodded. “You’d best be getting home. The storm is starting to pick up.”

Brendon shook off the cold as he opened his apartment door, but before he could retreat into the heat, a car pulled up alongside the curb and honked at him. He turned around and, through the snow, saw the outline of a Bentley.  
“Get in.” A rigid voice commanded.  
Brendon flipped the owner of that voice off.  
“I already told him three times I’m not taking the case. I don’t take sides, but William’s case is more straightforward than Kenny’s will ever be.”  
There was the opening and closing of the driver’s door as a short man approached him. His hair was greased back against his scalp with pomade, a tight beard against his jaw.  
“He’s raised the stakes.”  
“Take it up with my secretary like everyone else.”  
The man clicked his tongue in annoyance.  
“Kenny is an impatient man, Urie. You know he doesn’t like goin’ through the middle man.”  
Then, he produced an envelope from his inside breast pocket of his coat.  
“This is five thousand dollars, more to come if you take this case over Beckett’s. Might even upgrade you to a decent house instead of this slummy rowhouse.”  
Brendon looked at the envelope, then up at the other.  
“Jon…I-“  
“C’mon, it’s quick money. Remember, he’s the one who got you your ticket in the first place. Without Kenny, you wouldn’t have a job.”  
“He’d better give me more than five thousand clams.” Brendon agreed begrudgingly, taking the envelope and following Jon back to the car.  
William had been a role model to Brendon since he was in high school, the other being five years older than him and giving him refuge when his home life became too hostile. The gang that accompanied Beckett was like family to him, though Jon was right. Kenny had given him the one thing William couldn’t: his private detective’s license as well as his first few cases. William was less than enthusiastic about these circumstances, which is why he’d offered Brendon a decent three thousand to work his case which involved $80,000 worth of stolen jewels from one of his many fronts. But, who was to say he couldn’t work both?  
“What does he want this time? We both know if he tries anything, the deal is off for good.”  
Jon shrugged as he turned into a warehouse lot, the ride taking not but twenty minutes into the more industrial district by Lake Michigan.  
“Dunno what the boss wants besides your services. We’ll just have to find out when we get there.”  
Red flag.  
“Turn around.”  
“No.”  
“Jon Walker, do not make me jump out of this fuckin’ car.”  
“Do it. I’ll pick you right back up.”  
Brendon considered his options, staying put with a grumble, arms crossed as he watched the silhouettes of warehouses pass by. When the car stopped, though, he refused to get out.  
“C’mon, you already took the money, pal. You can’t back out now.” Jon huffed from the other side of the door, hands buried in his armpits to keep his fingers from freezing.  
Brendon sat there a moment, then suddenly opened the door of the light blue Rolls-Royce into the chauffeur, nailing him hard enough to make him stumble backwards into a dirty snowbank.  
“I told you, I ain’t no weak sister, Walker. Harris can have his money back till he’s ready to make an honest deal.”  
“You’re fifty feet from knowing the rest of the deal, dunce! You make a deal now and Kenny won’t keep tightening the screws on ya.”  
“Ten minutes. That’s all he gets.”  
“Great! Now let’s get inside before we lose our fingers.”

**  
The sudden change from the freezing outside to the cozy inside of the warehouse-turned-office-space made the investigator pause a moment to let it sink in. His home wasn’t nearly this warm; the entire place was falling apart with leaks, drafts, and the paper thin walls.  
He shrugged his coat off and placed it on the fancy coat rack with his hat and scarf.  
Jon lead the way to the back of the warehouse where Kenny kept his office, their wet shoes making dark marks on the concrete beneath them. They stopped at an out of place door with gold inlays in the molding around it. Jon rapped lightly on the wood, opening it after a moment of silence. He motioned for Brendon to enter and the small investigator did, greeted by the back of a big leather chair.  
Kenny turned in this big leather chair, puffing a large Cuban cigar.  
“Ah, my favorite young gumshoe finally made it!” He exclaimed with insincere excitement.  
“Let’s cut to the chase, Harris. What do you want?”  
“You know what I want. You’ve got the case, I’ve got the rest of the offer.”  
“Well, you can stick the rest of your offer up your ass! I’m not workin’ for you, not matter your offer.” Brendon spat, all awkwardness leaving his body. He refused to be bullied into helping someone as dastardly as Harris.  
This sparked the mobster’s interest and he stood, setting his cigar down in the crystal ashtray on his desk. He rounded the mahogany structure and approached Brendon.  
“Strong words comin’ from someone who wouldn’t be shit without me. Bill refused to give you this and now you wanna disrespect the man who did?” Kenny scoffed, looking to Jon. “Hold him.”  
Jon did as he was asked, grabbing Brendon’s arms and wrenching them behind his back. Kenny took off his sport coat in the meantime, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt methodically.  
Brendon inhaled sharply. “Take his name out of your mouth! He’s the only one who’s ever cared for me like a brother!”

**Author's Note:**

> Just got the itch to share this, since it's been sitting in my notes for months. It's a very modified version of a story line me and an old friend had come up with in an RP, which was something of a project between us. Anyway, enjoy.


End file.
